The air along the forested frontier of upstate New York was thick with the promise of violence on August 8th, 1758, a day that would etch the name of Major Israel Putnam into the annals of colonial history through a harrowing ordeal of capture, torture, and a near-miraculous deliverance from the flames. As the French and Indian War raged across the continent, Major Putnam, a 40-year-old officer of distinguished Salem, Massachusetts lineage, found himself leading a contingent of colonial soldiers in a desperate skirmish near Crown Point, a remote outpost teeming with the threat of ambush. His co-commander, Robert Rogers, would later achieve legendary status with his famed Rangers, but on this day, it was Putnam’s audacity and courage that placed him directly in the crosshairs of a ruthless enemy, setting the stage for a captivity that would test the very limits of human endurance.

The engagement unfolded with the sudden ferocity characteristic of wilderness warfare, as the detachment under Majors Rogers and Putnam, having split and reunited near South Bay, moved cautiously through the dense, overgrown terrain that had reclaimed the land around Old Fort Anne. A fatal error by Rogers and a British officer, who indulged in a reckless contest of marksmanship, had alerted the renowned French partisan leader, Molang, to their presence. With 500 men under his command, Molang swiftly orchestrated an ambuscade, laying a deadly trap precisely in the path of the advancing colonial forces.

As Major Putnam emerged from the thick underbrush into the more open forest, the enemy rose with terrifying yells, unleashing a volley that shattered the morning silence and plunged the column into a chaotic, man-to-man struggle for survival.

Despite the surprise, Putnam’s resolve did not waver. He halted his men, returned fire, and called for support, with Captain Dell advancing to his aid while Rogers, by his own account, formed a circular file to protect the rear. The battle devolved into a brutal, scattered engagement, fought with a savagery that defied conventional military tactics, as men took aim from behind the cover of massive tree trunks, their movements independent and desperate.

Putnam, having discharged his musket several times, found himself in a moment of critical vulnerability when his weapon misfired, the muzzle pressed directly against the chest of a large, well-proportioned Indian warrior. Seizing the advantage, the warrior sprang forward with a tremendous war whoop, his hatchet raised, compelling the major to surrender, and in an instant, Putnam was disarmed, bound fast to a tree, and left as a helpless spectator to the raging conflict.

The battle swayed back and forth, with Captain Dell and Captain Harmon rallying their men to push back the initial Indian advance, only to be forced to retreat themselves before rallying once more. This ebb and flow of combat created a nightmarish scenario for the bound Major Putnam, as the tree to which he was tied became the literal no-man’s-land between the two opposing forces. For over an hour, he stood immobilized, unable to move his body, stir his limbs, or even incline his head, as musket balls whizzed incessantly from both sides, striking the wood around him and passing through the sleeves and skirts of his coat.

His situation was a living hell, a passive target in a storm of lead, where the slightest shift in the battle’s momentum could mean instant death from either side.

In the midst of this peril, a young Indian, seeking to amuse himself and terrorize the captive, hurled a tomahawk at Putnam’s head repeatedly, each throw striking the tree at a hair’s breadth from its mark. The amusement was cut short by the arrival of a French bass officer, a man whose cruelty belied his civilized origins, who approached the prisoner and leveled a fusee within a foot of his breast. The weapon missed fire, but the officer’s malice was undeterred; deaf to Putnam’s pleas that he was a prisoner of war, the Frenchman violently pushed the gun’s muzzle against his ribs before delivering a cruel blow to his jaw with the butt of the piece.

This dastardly act was the first of many indignities, a prelude to the barbaric treatment that would follow as the battle finally concluded with the enemy retreating, leaving behind a field strewn with their dead.

Untied by the Indian who had captured him, a man Putnam would later refer to as his master, the ordeal of march began. Stripped of his coat, vest, stockings, and shoes, he was loaded with packs belonging to the wounded, his wrists bound so tightly with cord that they soon became immoderately swollen and painful. For many a tedious mile, he marched through rough paths, his feet scratched and bleeding, the burden above his strength, and the pain becoming intolerable.

In a moment of sheer desperation, he begged the Irish interpreter to implore the Indians to either knock him on the head and take his scalp or loose his hands, a plea that was answered by a French officer who ordered his bonds removed and some of the packs taken off, offering a brief respite from the physical torment.

The temporary relief was short-lived, as the party, now numbering around 200, moved ahead to their night’s encampment, taking Putnam with them. It was here, in the darkening forest, that his suffering was to be consummated in a scene of horror that defied comprehension. Determined to roast him alive, the Indians led him into a dark forest, stripped him naked, and bound him to a tree.

They piled dry brush and fuel in a circle around him, their labors accompanied by screams and sounds that seemed to serve as a funeral dirge. As they set the piles on fire, a sudden shower damped the rising flames, but they strove to kindle it again until the blaze ran around the circle, and Putnam began to feel the scorching heat. With his hands tied, he could only shift his body from side to side as the fire approached, a sight that afforded the highest diversion to his inhuman tormentors, who responded with yells, dances, and gesticulations of savage joy.

Facing what he believed was his inevitable and final hour, Major Putnam summoned all his resolution, composing his mind to bid an eternal farewell to all he held dear. The thought of home, of his affectionate partner and beloved offspring, brought a pang sharper than any physical torment, but he fixed his mind on a happier state of existence beyond the tortures he was beginning to endure. Just as nature was quitting its last hold, a French officer rushed through the crowd, scattering the burning brands and unbounding the victim.

It was Molang himself, who had been summoned by an Indian unwilling to witness another human sacrifice. The commandant spurned and severely reprimanded the barbarians, abruptly ending their nocturnal pow-wows and hellish orgies, and saving Putnam from a death that had seemed all but certain.

The French commander, fearing to trust the prisoner alone with the Indians, remained until he could deliver him safely into the hands of his master. The Indian who had captured him approached Putnam kindly, treating him with particular affection, offering him hard biscuits which he could not chew due to the blow he had received. Showing a glimmer of humanity, the Indian soaked the biscuit in water and made him suck the pulp-like part.

However, determined not to lose his captive, the Indian took the moccasins from Putnam’s feet, tied them to his wrist, and directed him to lie down on his back upon the bare ground. His arms and legs were stretched apart and bound fast to young trees and saplings, and slender poles and bushes were laid across his body from head to foot, with Indians lying on either side to prevent any possibility of escape.

In this disagreeable and painful posture, Putnam remained until morning, enduring the longest and most dreary night imaginable. Yet, in a remarkable display of resilience, he later related that a ray of cheerfulness came across his mind, and he could not refrain from smiling when reflecting on the ludicrous group, of which he himself was the principal figure, a scene worthy of a painter’s canvas. The next day, his treatment improved slightly; he was allowed his blankets and moccasins and permitted to march without carrying any packs or receiving insults.

A little bear’s meat was given to allay his extreme hunger, which he sucked through his teeth. At night, the party arrived at Ticonderoga, where the prisoner was placed under the care of a French guard, and the Indians, prevented from glutting their diabolical thirst for blood, were suffered no more to offer violence or personal indignity to him.

After being examined by the Marquis de Montcalm, Major Putnam was conducted to Montreal by a French officer who treated him with the greatest indulgence and humanity, a stark contrast to the savagery he had endured. His captivity, marked by a near-fatal burning and the constant threat of death, had finally come to an end. The story of his survival, saved first by a fortuitous rain and then by the intervention of a disgusted Indian and the French commander Molang, would become a testament to his fortitude.

Major Putnam would go on to serve with distinction in the Revolutionary War on the American side, while his former commander, Rogers, whose questionable conduct may have led to the ambush, would ultimately fight for the British. The legacy of the Putnam family, rooted in Salem and marked by both the infamy of the witch trials and the valor of its soldiers, remains a complex thread in the tapestry of early American history, a history that this account seeks to preserve.